Time Crunch on Montecito Peak, Gaviota Peak

02/25/26

A whole assortment of menial, boring errands ate up the next couple of days after the half marathon. Necessary car maintenance, a tax appointment, stuff like that. As such, I only had three more days to explore, socialize, observe, contemplate. Had to get out there and see the sticks, touch some dirt. Wanted to see some place I ain't ever been, so I decided to check out Montecito Peak in the Santa Barbara front country. 

Not wanting to do something terrific that would destroy my already tender legs, Montecito Peak seemed like the perfect idea. I had spent the night at Liam's place, leaving somewhat late the next morning for the Cold Spring Trailhead off of East Mountain Drive. Not a whole lot of people were parked in the pullouts along the road. Perhaps that's what it's always like on a late Wednesday morning in February. I found a spot, parked the car, packed up my valuables, grabbed half a liter of water, and then set off on the trail.

Warm air, cool breeze, rushing water, green grass, miner's lettuce, purple flowers. Everything green and bright; looked more like April than February. I walked along, enjoying the phenomenal weather and lush scenery. Gaining elevation, the views began to materialize, as well as the sweat. Sweat on my head, sweat on my back. Before long, I was nice and soaked, my mind racked with flashbacks of all those times I trudged up Arlington Peak without enough water. Ah yes. The good ol' Santa Barbara front country. It was good to be back. 

I hit a junction with the Ridge Trail (or something like that, I wasn't paying much attention), hooked a left, and continued up to the peak. I could see it clearly now, a brushy, pointy lookin' summit that stood not too far off in the distance. I saw the trail cutting across the mountain, taking the long way. I considered cutting the trail and just going straight up the south ridge, but I'm a lazy bum and a trail purist so I put one foot in front of the other and kept on trucking up the path. 

I passed some young folks making their way up; they seemed to be enjoying themselves, talking about everything and everything. I kept on walking and walking, not stopping until I found some shade in a small group of eucalyptus trees. I chugged my water, sat for a bit, and then carried on, the peak getting closer with every step.

Before long, I reached a junction with a well-worn and obvious use trail that branched off towards the peak. A short and steep moment later I was staring up at the pointy summit, the trail directly ascending its northern side. I continued along, smaller use trails branching off from the main one in a few directions, all of which were viable options (although a tad brushy). The grade eventually mellowed out and the trail wound its way to the east of the summit before wrapping around south and spitting me out on top. 

Montecito Peak

Montecito Peak Summit

No register, no benchmark to be found (although I'll admit I didn't look too hard). A small gravestone was placed on the summit; didn't read it, didn't look at it. The views were much better a bit farther to the south, so I waved a slight wave to the summit and went off in that direction. A short while later and I was sitting on top of a bunch of sandstone boulders, staring at some of the best views of Santa Barbara and the Channel Islands I've ever seen.

Nice skies, crystal blue water, mild haze, green country, shining city. Close enough to see civilization, far enough to be deaf to its existence. Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel all within frame, all of them obscure, isolated, mysterious. Oil rigs in the channel, a boat here and there, microscopic cars moving like blood cells through a vein on the 101 freeway, clouds in the air moving slower than a stoned sloth, sunshine, fresh air and the mighty Pacific, all there before my eyes, blazing the scene upon my overstimulated retinas. I forgot how good the views are in the Santa Ynez Range. On a good day, they're truly something else. 

The young people reached the summit; their muffled voices and footsteps breaking the silence. They didn't stay too long, just long enough for a few pictures, a snack and some light conversation. They packed up and left, and so did I, slowly making my way through the light brush back to the use trail. I took one last look at the gorgeous view, said my goodbyes, and then trotted off the summit. 

The young folks were taking their time on the way down. I became impatient almost immediately and took one of the side routes, zig-zagging down the the mountain until meeting up with the main use trail. It spit me out at the junction, which meant it was back to trukin'. I skipped and hopped on the downhill, walking occasionally to save my wobbly knees. There was a woman with eight or nine dogs resting at the eucalyptus trees, all of them leashless, all of them extremely well-behaved. Down, down, down, the sun in my face, my water supply holding steady, the lighting and the scenery growing better and better as the day wore on.

I reached the junction with the Ridge Trail (or whatever it was called) and decided to follow it the rest of the way down. Part of me thought that it would save me some distance, but really I was just curious to see what it had to offer. And offer it did. About halfway down I nearly stepped on a big ol' gopher snake sunbathing in the middle of the trail. I looked at it and it at me and then it slithered away into the bushes, quite vexed at having its sunbathing session so rudely interrupted. I trotted the rest of the way, finishing the whole hike in a little over three hours.

Three hours was much longer than I thought it would take. Oh well. That's what happens when you do zero research on a route. For some reason, I thought the hike was only 2.5 miles. It was closer to 7. Oopsie. Now I had to make a decision: bag another peak or relax and grab a bite to eat in town. I had to meet my Dad for dinner at 5:30pm, which was four hours away. The closest peak of interest, Gaviota Peak, was about 40 minutes away, the hike to the summit a fairly steep 6 mile roundtrip hike. I'd have to be finished with the peak by 4pm, 4:15 at the latest in order to make it to dinner on time. It was currently 1:05pm. I'd have to climb the whole thing, up and down, in 2 hours. Oooh brother. This would be close.

The wise choice would've been to relax and grab a bite to eat, maybe even go to the beach and read a book, but of course I didn't do that. I like me a good challenge, and the time crunch made it all the more exciting. I jumped in my car, started 'er up, and drove straight to the trailhead for Gaviota Peak. Only two cars were there, one of which was a parks service vehicle. Not wanting to be an easy ticket, I reluctantly payed the $2 parking fee in quarters, dropping the envelope in the little metal box by the trailhead. And then it was on!

Heading up to Gaviota Peak...

I began the thing at an easy jog, which was a mistake. I jogged and walked, jogged and walked, following the wide dirt road up and up and up through a forest of typical Southern Californian foliage. I payed no mind to the trail for the hot springs; didn't have no time to see those today. Just kept on jogging and walking, jogging and walking, down a little bit and then up and up and up pretty much the whole rest of the way to the summit.

My legs were on fire, my heart felt like it was gonna jump out of my neck. I was completely drenched in sweat, big fat globs of it plopping on my sunglasses ever minute or so. I took them off, wiped 'em on my shirt, and kept going. I was panting like an overworked sled dog, my breath heavy and labored. I started dry heaving and then I was like, "hey, this is completely optional by the way" and I sat flat on the ground and took a five minute break, just enough to get my heart rate back to a more agreeable rhythm. 

I didn't jog anymore after that. No sir. Just found my groove and kept on walking up the dirt road, up and up, until it finally reached the summit ridge. I pushed onward, kicked it into another gear, and finished up the last little push to the summit in no time. 

Last bit to the top

Gaviota Peak Summit

It had taken me a little over an hour and ten minutes to get to the summit. No time for dilly-dallying. I took a few pictures, a little tinkle, and then immediately started heading back. It was windy up there anyway, and my soaking wet shirt didn't help much in making me comfortable. So I trotted on down, taking a few more pictures of the Pacific Ocean and Santa Cruz Island in the distance.

Headin' back...

I jogged until my legs screamed "no thank you" and relegated me to walking for the rest of the afternoon. A few others were making their way up, all of them much more relaxed and a heck of a lot less sweaty than me. Down the road, down the curves, through the green, across the mud, under the oaks with the Spanish moss, past the poppies, past the miner's lettuce, down down down. I reached the parking lot. There were a lot more cars there now, with no parks service vehicle to be seen. I walked up to my car. Threw my bag in the back. Downed some electrolytes. Sat down. It was 3:52pm. Hahaha. I had time to spare.

The drive back into town was uneventful. Typical Santa Barbara traffic didn't surprise me one bit. I took Highway 150, stopping at an overlook of Lake Casitas to stretch my angry legs. Met up with my Dad at Boccali's. Had me the pasta primavera. 'Twas very good. My hamstring only cramped up once during dinner, which was nice. Coulda cramped up a thousand times. Always gotta look on the bright side, you know? 

Mt. Magazine and the Long Drive West

Those meteorologists weren't joking. The fabled storm came and went, leaving behind snow and ice and slick roads and a wall of cold air that never seemed to go away. Our area avoided the worst of it, thank goodness, but the lingering cold and snow reminded us that yes, it was still winter and yes, it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Cooped up inside, I began surfing the net out of boredom, searching for nothing in particular, just trying to pass the time. Well, wouldn't you know it, I found me a seasonal job that was hiring out west and by some twist of fate actually managed to get myself employed. Very exciting news indeed. So I packed up my things, said goodbye to the family and began the long drive west, heading into the unknown, setting off for a future of endless possibilities. 

I left on the 17th, a sunny, cold day filled with weak winter lighting and clouds so thin they didn't look real. I met up with good ol' Interstate 40, my soon-to-be closest companion for the next four days. Travelin' on the road, passin' trucks, pullin' over at the rest stops, gettin' gas, munchin' on granola bars, all day, every day. I drove and drove and drove, traveling across the entire state of Tennessee, crossing the Mississippi, off into Arkansas, passing through Little Rock, stopping in Conway. I made it to the Hotel, dumped my bags in the room, and then walked around town to stretch the ol' getaway sticks. Walking. walking, walking. Sidewalks, blacktop, many many restaurants. I walked by the local college, walked by the track and gym, walked the road to the main campus. Sunset, faint light, orange skies, students flocking to the cafeteria. Didn't linger too long; drivin' all day had worked up quite the appetite. Legs stretched, feet fine, arms akimbo, I got back in the car and drove to a Thai place that was actually pretty dang good. And then it was back to the hotel, off to sleep, ready to do the same thing all over again in the morning. 

I awoke at dawn and trucked on out of there, leaving my friend the I-40 for the time being to make a quick detour to Mt. Magazine. I'd seen signs for it last year when we all moved out to Tennessee and have always wondered what it was all about and whether or not there were magazines at the summit or whatever.

Russellville, Dardanelle, Chickalah, Ranger. Tiny towns in rolling hills, pine trees everywhere, houses falling apart, houses standing strong, houses with trash in the yard, houses with nothing in the yard, a pig in the mud, a peacock on the roof. I turned onto Hwy 309 and made my way deeper into the mountains, slowly ascending through a healthy pine forest, barren deciduous trees, and cool lookin' rocks. I reached an overlook and immediately checked it out. Southerly views stretched before me, the landscape completely foreign. I found me a trail and walked on it for a moment, following it along the gray cliffs and wispy pines. The views stretched on and on; these were probably much better than those on the summit. I'd done enough southeastern summits to know that it's more about reaching the top than it is to see a view. Most of them peaks is forested. Mt. Magazine is no different. 

Turned around, hopped back in the car, pedal to the metal and back to driving, driving, driving. Down the road, past the visitor center. I found a place to park and then set off on the mellow summit trail, a well-maintained path barely half a mile in length. Had I more time, I would've slowed down, smelled the air, listened to the birds, twiddled my thumbs, watched the paint dry, you know, stuff like that. But I had to be in Amarillo that evening, and Amarillo was a long ways off. So I rushed through it, reaching the popular summit in great haste, signed my name, took a few pictures, and then turned around and ran the whole rest of the way back. Didn't find me no magazines at the summit either. How utterly disappointing....

Mt. Magazine Summit

I took the scenic overlook drive, stopping at the various viewpoints, stretching my legs, despairing at the long drive ahead. Here, on the north side, the views seemed a little more expansive. The skies were clear, the Ozark Plateau stretched out before me, rocks and cliffs and sticks and water rushing somewhere, audible but hidden from view. I checked out some cliffs, sat on the edge, said, "hmmm" or something like that, looked at the sun, took a few more photos, realized that this place was legit, and then got on out of there. 

Down the road, out of the mountains, down, down, down. Corley, Paris, Roseville, Ozark. Back on the I-40, my ol' friend, beautiful, amazing, totally-not-boring concrete companion, guardian of the semi truck, keeper of the potholes, host to the occasional accident. Off into Fort Smith, off into Oklahoma, driving along, going, going, gone. OKC, Weatherford, Clinton, Elk City. Flat country, not a whole lot out there to please the eye and tingle the senses. Prairie fires, smoke columns rising like miniature volcanic eruptions, the air warm and dry, the grass dead and brown. I rolled into Amarillo. Ran 6 miles on the treadmill. Ate some Tex-Mex. Went to sleep. Got up. Kept on driving. 

On the road...

It was dark. Not a lot of lights; very sleepy towns. The sun crested the horizon just as I crossed the border into New Mexico. Cold out there, 38℉ and dropping. Stopped for gas in Tucumcari, everyone there wearing hoodies and sweatpants and jeans, bundled up with their hands in their pockets, their breath visible in the faint morning light. Battled some crosswinds on the way to Santa Rosa. Trucks swaying, drivers anxious. Rolled on into Albuquerque, snow-capped mountains, cloudy skies. Off into the desert, now in the proper southwest, the rocks red, snow on the ground, 24℉ and dropping. Grants, Thoreau, Gallup. Salt on the windshield, the road slick, the cars filthy. Stopped at a gas station, 22℉ and dropping. Broke up the ice in the bucket with the squeegee and cleaned that crap off my windshield. And then it was back to the road.

Crossed into Arizona, snow disappearing, going, going, gone. Warmed up a bit, 40℉ and rising. Left my friend the I-40 once again and checked out Petrified Forest National Park. Why not? It was right there, I saw the sign, plus I had me a hankering to see some good ol' wood, petrified or not. 

Blue Mesa

Took a dump, drove around, stretched my legs, saw the sights. Stopped at Blue Mesa and walked on a paved trail, gawkin' and gazin' at all the petrified wood. I imagined what it looked like before anyone found it, before anyone took home a souvenir, before the masses came and the roads were built and the signs were posted warning those that a curse will be placed on ye who steals this wood (there are no such signs, but I believe they would be a lot more effective if they said that, don't you agree?). But there was still a good amount of old wood left and all of it was beautiful; silica, silt, and time workin' together to preserve the shape of a living thing that died hundreds of millions of years ago. 

I hiked on out of there, got back in the car, stopped at a couple more spots. Checked out the Jasper Forest. Checked out the Crystal Forest. And that was it. Left the park, made a right, drove through Holbrook, and I was back on the 40, back to the land of zooming trucks and zoomier cars and zoomiest motorcycles and the occasional RV going 55 in the fast lane and making everyone's lives all the more excitable for a brief yet excruciating moment of time. 

Drove through Winslow, saw Humphrey's Peak in the distance, its summit obscured in clouds. A winter storm warning had been issued, but the clouds didn't look too bad, at least not yet. Rolled into Flagstaff, checked into the Hotel, walked through slick snow to one of the best Indian Restaurants I know. Back in the Hotel, the room warm, the clouds a little darker outside, the bed comfy, sleepy time as imminent as the coming dawn.

Morning time, one last drive. The storm dropped a few inches of fresh powder. Everything glistening and sparkly and fresh. People out and about, brushing the snow off their cars, pushing their suitcases unsuccessfully through the powder. I got on out of there, coasting out of the mountains, my car turning into a salt-mobile. Down, down, down, out of the mountains, out of the snow. Kingman, Topock, Needles, a jump in gas prices, California at last. Nothing but Mojave desert for miles around; nice, clean, empty. And then there's Barstow and I ditched my friend the I-40 for the I-15. Goodbye, and good riddance. Victorville, Pearblossom, Acton, Santa Clarita. Hopped on Hwy 126, following it the rest of the way to Daniel's place. He was outside. I rolled down the window. We shook hands. Finally, the days of driving had come to an end. 

I had planned on stayin' in town for a week, spending the days catchin' up with friends and family and maybe go on a hike or two. The day after I made it into town, on Saturday, the 21st, my Uncle, cousin and I rode up to Rose Valley to check out the Sespe. Lots of water in that thing; flowin' nice and strong. And then the next day Ry, Liam, and I ran a half marathon. I signed up for the thing back in September and had trained on and off over the following months, nothing consistent, my legs unconditioned, my cardio unprepared. But we ran it anyway and we ran it well, talking most of the way, me making jokes, Liam commenting on the strange medal design, and Ry glad that we picked up the pace near the end which made me shut up with my vocal diarrhea, sparing him from further public embarrassment. McKenna ran the same race as well, breaking the 2 hour mark, a remarkable accomplishment. A very good race indeed.

The Sespe

Later, after a nice hot shower and a lunch at the Ojai Beverage Company, Ry, Liam, Daniel and Company drove up the 33 to a little spot I knew just to check it out. And the water was cold and Nick was gonna jump in only if Liam would do it first, and Daniel tried some fishing but came up empty handed. And then we threw rocks into the water like the idiots we are and Sophia participated at first but then ended up standing there, watching our shenanigans with a look of bemusement and mild apathy. And then we drove to the large dirt pullout by Dry Lakes Ridge and watched the sunset and threw more rocks and all I could think was that it was nice to be back in town, at least for a little bit. 

Table Rock and Hawksbill Mountain

 

I've been feeling especially lazy as of late. Haven't been spending much time at all in the local wilds. Sneezy winter illnesses and minor physical ailments played their small part, tempting me to lay on the sofa and binge-watch Netflix for hours on end. I succumbed to the temptation with open arms. January has been the month of the couch potato, and I've been the most willing participant. That was, until a couple of days ago.

A big ol' storm is brewin' out west, a storm that most meteorologists are claiming to be one for the history books. Stretching from Texas to New York, this storm is likely to leave chaos and destruction in its wake, with record amounts of ice and snow and maybe a tornado or two. Using my expert analysis and staggering intellect, I was able to deduce that this storm is probably gonna shut things down for a few weeks, so if I was gonna do anything this month, I'd better get to it. Pronto. 

The day to do it was Wednesday, the 21st. I wanted to do something quick and easy, something that required minimal effort but offered big rewards. My mind immediately though of Table Rock Mountain out in North Carolina, a summit I'd seen from the top of Hump Mountain back in December. Several weeks after summiting Hump, on my way to drop Grace off at the airport in Charlotte, we drove right by Table Rock, its pointy summit visible through the bare trees off of Highway 181. I was enamored. Fascinated. It looked even more interesting up close and was just begging to be explored. So that about settled it; I was gonna climb it one day. Doing a little research, I found that it's pretty easy to get to, just a short hike on a nice trail through beautiful country. Alright. It was settled. I was climbing this thing. 

I got a late start, arriving at the trailhead right at 12:30pm. A few other vehicles were parked in the dirt pullout on the side of the road. I started walking on the Table Rock Gap trail, moving along at a brisk pace through the chilly air. The forest here was a mixture of bare deciduous trees, tired and faded pines, and of course, tons of rhododendrons. A slight breeze slithered overhead; everything smelling fresh and clean. I walked on, the trail mostly flat, enjoying the peaceful scenery while I could before things got steep and rocky. 

The trail started heading uphill, and it remained that way for a long while. Switchback after switchback, higher and higher, views started to appear through the leafless trees. Bits and pieces of rock and debris materialized upon the ground, with several roots snaking their way up and down the trail, all of them well-worn by thousands of footsteps. Hawksbill Mountain became visible to the north, a large forested bump jutting out of the landscape. And then came the views of Linville Gorge, a wide, forested valley that stretched off to the northwest. 

Hawksbill Mountain

Linville Gorge

There was a small group of hikers making their way down the trail. They passed me by, wishing me a lovely day. I continued on, deciding to check out a little spur trail to the left that steeply made its way up to Table Rock. I assumed this to be a climbing trail; the route hugged the base of these huge cliffs with excellent climbing opportunities everywhere. I did a little bit of lookin' around, following this crazy path for a ways as it snaked its way around to the east. Once I had my fill, I decided to turn around and head back to the main trail, careful not to trip on the pointy rocks. 

Back on the main trail, I followed it for a little bit until reaching the official junction to the summit of Table Rock. The ground that surrounded me was covered in slick and slippery ice; in fact, much of the trail was in this condition. It wasn't until I was about halfway to the summit when the ice disappeared. I slipped a few times, fell on my hip a few others, but all of it was simple good fun. I carried on, the trees now mostly pines, the views getting better and better with each passing step.

I reached the summit in good time. It looked as if there had been a structure up there at one point, maybe a lookout tower. All that remained was a crumbly stone foundation. I found the USGS marker, dropped my stuff, and then looked around. I had the whole place to myself; not a soul to be seen. To the southwest were staggering views of Linville Gorge. And looking on, rising up in the distance stood Mt. Mitchell and Co, some of the tallest mountains east of the Mississippi. It was crystal-clear that day; the views stretching off into infinity. I took a few pictures and then made my way to the northern part of the summit, following a well-worn path through the low brush. 

Table Rock Summit

The path terminated in rocky cliffs that offered unobstructed views to the north, east, and west. These were by far the best views on the mountain so I lingered for a while, setting up shop on a little ledge. I found another USGS marker glistening in the sun, its existence a mystery to me. Oh well. Can't hurt to have a spare. 

I sat and soaked in the views, picking up landmarks in the distance, putting names on unfamiliar bumps. Off to the northwest could be seen Roan High Knob, Grassy Ridge Bald, Big Yellow Mountain, and of course, Hump Mountain, all of them looking quite cold and uninviting. Directly north rose Hawksbill Mountain, its rocky summit appearing like little dots of gray on a mound of green. And there, off to the northeast, rose Grandfather Mountain and Co, an interesting collection of rocky peaks that I'm sure to visit in the future. Off to the east I could see the mountains Grace and I drove through on our way to Charlotte, following them south as they grew shorter and shorter until disappearing altogether in the southeast. There, for miles and mile and miles, stretched an infinite land of green hills and tiny glimmering things and even tinier columns of smoke rising into the air. Civilization never looked so pitiful.

Northwest, Hump Mtn dead center in the distance

Northeast, Grandfather Mtn center left

East

Southeast

Southwest

These were some of the best views I've seen on an eastern peak; I could see why this is such a popular spot. But there was still one cardinal direction that hadn't revealed much to me, and that of course was the view to the south. So I gathered my things, said goodbye to my ledge, and then made my way back to the main summit. From there I followed another well-worn path that weaved its way through boulders and brush to the south, the pines waving in the breeze. 

This little jaunt to the south was proving to be quite fun, bobbing and weaving through boulders and trees. I followed a ridge of sorts, hopping from one rock to another. The thing kept on going, getting more and more extreme, but there was no need to follow it for very long. I picked out a nice, open spot, sat down, and enjoyed the tremendous views to the south, Lake James visible in the distance. Directly ahead, down the ridge, rose a plateau of sorts covered with several rock formations. This must be the famous Chimneys I'd read about on various trip reports, a land of rugged cliffs and scraggly pines. Standing there from my vantage point, I could tell that this place was definitely worth checking out. But not today. The clock was a tickin', so I reluctantly made my way off the mountain, retracing my steps back to the summit. 

South

Table Rock summit

Back down the trail...

I said goodbye to Table Rock and made my way back down the trail, stopping for a quick detour to check out something called "Devil's Cellar." I followed a path beneath the pines that eventually spit me out on top of a huge crack in the mountain. I was standing on top of a chasm, the cliffs probably 70ft or more in height. On the shady side of the chasm were a collection giant icicles, some nearing 30ft in length. The only other time I'd seen ice like that was up in Billings with Daniel and Liam. Strange to think that icicles like these could be found all the way down in North Carolina. But what do I know. I ain't no local. 

"Devil's Cellar"

I jogged the rest of the way down the trail to the car, my wrists frigid and limp from the cold. I luckily still had some time to kill so I decided to check out Hawksbill Mountain on the drive back. Why not? I'd been looking at it most of the day and it was right there so I might as well see what it had to offer. Plus, I'd read that the route up Hawksbill is short and steep, so it would be a perfect way to end what was turning out to be a pretty good day in the woods. I drove up the dirt road, finding a spot in the pullout by the trailhead. I got out, tightened my shoes, and then began the short jaunt to the summit.

The trail mostly passed through the woods as it made its way up the mountain. It's fairly mellow at first, and then it gets steep and continues to be steep pretty much the rest of the way to the top. I met a couple of hikers making their way down, a young man carrying a huge pack and an older guy with a scented bandana strung around his neck. I walked up and up, following the switchbacks through the woods, careful not to trip on a root or two. I reached a trail junction and turned left, ascending through woods until reaching a flat, open spot. From there I followed a well-worn path north and topped out on the rocky summit in no time. 

A guy was up there with his two pugs, all of them laying on the rocks in the sun just having a jolly good time. Wanting to give them privacy, I ventured a little ways to the north, posting up on some ledges. The views were much of the same that I'd seen on Table Rock. Linville Gorge, Mt. Mitchell, Grandfather Mountain, the whole shebang. I looked around for a bit before heading back to the summit proper, the icy breeze making me wish I'd brought a jacket. 

The Summit

Northwest

Southeast

I stopped and chatted with the guy for a bit, mostly talking about the coming storm. "Heard it's gonna be mostly ice" he said. "Yep" I said. "Seems like it." We wished each other well and I ventured to the southwest, following a rocky ridge of sorts that offered tremendous views of the surrounding country. These were without a doubt the best views I'd seen all day. Table Rock rose in the distance, looking like a stubby thumb jutting out of the mountain. Below was the rest of Linville Gorge, light reflecting off the icy cliffs like miniature suns. The views stretched on forever, the mountains rose and fell, frozen in place like gargantuan waves on a turbulent sea. And the sun slowly etched its way across the sky, falling toward the horizon, illuminating the whole scene with delicate winter lighting. And that got me thinking. Watching a sunrise or sunset on this peak would be absolutely spectacular. I could just tell, you know? It's just one of those peaks. I made a note to come back someday to witness such an event. But for the moment, I simply sat down, rested my head on my hands, and observed. 

Southwest

South, Table Rock left

Cool rock formations

I didn't want to leave. But it was cold up there and the breeze was chillin' me to the bone and I had no jacket and I had to be somewhere that night and I had a long drive ahead of me so I got up, said goodbye, and trucked on out of there. On the way down, by that flat area beneath the summit, I made a super quick detour to the south to see if there was anything to see of note. After poking around for a bit through brush and boulders, I found a nice little overlook of sorts that offered much of the same views that could be seen from the summit. Turning around, I made my way back to the trail, trotting and skipping the rest of the way back to the car. And that about wrapped it up. All that was left was the long drive back home.

I was glad to finally do something after succumbing to sloth for so long. It had been an excellent day in an excellent place, one that I'm sure to visit again in the near future. As for this coming storm, well, it's gonna be interesting. Maybe it'll be awful. Hopefully not. All we can do is just wait and see what it does.